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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23761192">The Pros and Cons of Working At Stark Industries</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerPurpleDragon/pseuds/QueerPurpleDragon'>QueerPurpleDragon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abuse, Aliens, Anxiety, Bigender Character, Bisexual Peter Parker, Bisexuality, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, F/F, F/M, Gender Dysphoria, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Genderfluid Character, Genderqueer Character, Good Peter, Hybrids, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, In a way, Lesbian Character, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Original Character(s), Panic Attacks, Parent Tony Stark, Past Abuse, Peter Parker Loves Tony Stark, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Precious Peter Parker, Queer Themes, Stark Industries, Superheroes, Supervillains, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Trans, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trans Peter Parker, Useless Lesbians, buckle up and welcome to the wild ride, gay people, internships, not a legal one, old fic I’m picking back up, posted for pride knights, pride knights, stay proud, who knows where it’ll end up</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:34:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,894</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23761192</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerPurpleDragon/pseuds/QueerPurpleDragon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Bryn is your average non-binary genius, if said teen was also Mexican-American, dirt poor, and aspiring to be an engineer.</p><p>Some strings are pulled, and lo and behold, he’s hired at Stark Industries.</p><p>This is stressful for more reasons than you would think, as Bryn is not exactly human.</p><p>(Okay, maybe not so average. Sue them.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bruce Banner/Thor, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, OCs/Ocs, Pepper Potts/Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Gay Chaos In The Workplace</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Welcome to I Got Distracted And Picked Up An Abandoned Fic, posted for pride knights (a tumblr event, go check it out). Nothin is else is canceled, I just am easily distracted. And so-our journey begins. Enjoy, fellow nerds, the trip.</p><p>(Tws at the bottom)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mama is good at baking. So is Brooke, my twin sister. Therefore, when we left Dad and needed a way to survive, opening a small bakery was a relatively safe(er) option. Brooke and Mama did most of the baking and all the delicate stuff I never got a hold of. I helped out with the rest-painting the signs in the front window and outside our doors, hauling in heavy ingredients, and managing the numbers.</p><p>            And while Mama and Brooke were both content running the bakery, which eventually turned into a coffee shop as well, I-well, I wasn’t. It wasn’t that I was unhappy, more that I just didn’t want to repaint fading signs and stitch up fraying cloth we couldn’t pay to replace and manage a checkbook and my honors classes homework for the rest of high school, and maybe college, and maybe beyond.</p><p>            So, I started going after what I wanted-an engineering degree. A job creating new things, dreaming up answers to questions no one asked, maybe changing the world.</p><p>            If you go by logic (and how else am I supposed to approach it, Brooke, honestly, ¿Cómo estás mi hermana?), most successful engineers started young. Internships in high school, small jobs just out of high school, and slowly building from there.</p><p>            I called in help from friends, which is always good when you’re a Mexican-American non-binary teen trying to get a job. One of Brooke’s friends, Ember, worked at Oscorp and tried to set me up with an interview.</p><p>            (They rejected me when Ember refused to use he/him pronouns, bless her. Now she’s quit and is independent, filing patents in her own name and selling her products. This is, of course, after her anger-protect-the-friend instinct exploded about as red and fiery as her hair.)</p><p>            Another bright young genius in Brooke’s friend group, Spark, ended up getting me a job.</p><p>            (I will never understand Brooke’s ability to somehow make friends with all the geniuses she comes across, despite not understanding half of what comes out of their mouths. I think she’s mostly the embodiment of the ‘you’re doing amazing, sweetie’ thing.)</p><p>            And do you know where she got me a job. You didn’t guess it, Stark mother ducking Industries. As in, in Stark Tower. As in, I was hired by Iron Man.</p><p>            What is my life, honestly?</p><p>            Spark’s a genius coder (hacker). She helps develop medical software over at Stark Industries, working alongside the heads of the business. (Somehow. Who knows.) So, she just glanced at my application while her boss/friend/coworker and commented about what an absolute genius I was. (“Really, sir, they didn’t ask me to say that.” “No, sir, I meant they.” “Sir, they helped me build my last project, which is currently being called some pumped-up verbs by Tony Stark himself.”)</p><p>            And then I got a phone call that told me I was hired. Boom. Level complete, press start to move on.</p><p>            Which all leads up to now-me standing outside Stark Tower, trying not to cuss in Spanish, because I have never been less happy to walk into a building in my life.<br/>
C’mon, I tell myself. Three more seconds of dawdling and then you’re walking in.<br/>
Three.<br/>
Dios, I’m underprepared.<br/>
Two.<br/>
Brooke smiled at me, a little bigger and brighter than usual. Said she was glad I was ‘moving on, you anxious little guinea pig, you’.<br/>
One.<br/>
Okay, we’re doing this. I am walking towards those glass doors.</p><p>            I jostle my way through the crowd, mostly made up of men in smart suits and women in heels tall enough to stab me with. I push open the glass doors by their shiny golden (real? Who knows, Tony Stark is rich enough) handle and step into the lobby.</p><p>            It’s your usual deal, almost like a fancy hotel-a long, spacious, minimally-decorated room, lined in bullet-proof glass and security guards, with a long, sleek desk at the front. The woman sitting at that desk is typing something into a Stark brand computer.</p><p>            A little more unusually, a pair of security guards pat me down upon entry and then bade me farewell, but I guess that’s regular here.</p><p>            The walk across the room takes a decade, and opening my mouth is a century gone by.<br/>
“Hello, ma’am,” I say, praying my Mexican accent isn’t thick enough for anyone to take offense, “I’m the new intern?”<br/>
I go to say my name, but then I’m unsure what to say. Dylan, my deadname, the name on all my legal papers, or Bryn, the name that defines me?<br/>
She looks up and smiles, unaware of my crisis. “Ah, yes!” she says, turning to me fully. “Bryn King, yes?”<br/>
I’m shocked, but manage to get my jaw to close and my neck bent enough to give a jerk of a nod. “Yes, ma’am,” I reply timidly.<br/>
She nods, turning to her computer. “Engineering, I believe? You’ll be on the twenty-second floor,” she says. She glances up and hands me a laminated and important-looking badge. “This is your security pass. You’ll be able to get into your work floor, which is entirely the engineering department, the break room on the next floor up, and,” she says, winking, “The all-genders bathroom on that floor, which allows you to use it even if any bathroom bill passes.”<br/>
Do not cry, I tell myself. You’re not crying.<br/>
“Yes, uh, yes, ma’am,” I manage, holding my professionalism in place with a single thread. “Er-thank you, ma’am.”<br/>
She nods and gives me an encouraging smile. “You’ll have to forgive us if someone uses the wrong pronouns-you were outstanding enough we all heard about your files, and we got used to using he/him. It wasn’t until a girl from Software said you preferred more neutral terms we started trying our best to use them, but we may slip, occasionally.”<br/>
Not crying, I tell emotional-me sternly.<br/>
“It’s all right, ma’am,” I responded meekly.<br/>
She nods, and starts to point over to a set of three elevators on the right wall. “There’s three elevators. You can use the two to the right. The last one’s private,” she rattles off, probably having said this a million times. “Floor twenty-two is Engineering, twenty three’s break rooms. Have a good day-“<br/>
She stops, blinks, then hesitantly asks, “Excuse me, but what would your formal title be?”<br/>
I smile uneasily. “Well, I use Mx. With, uh, with an m, an I, and a quick ks sound. Like the verb.”<br/>
She smiles cheerily. “Well then, Mx. King, welcome to Stark Industries’ Engineering Department, and I hope you enjoy your day.”<br/>
“You too,” I tell her.</p><p>            Then I set off for the elevators, only slightly less terrified than I was five minutes before.</p><p>            The elevator is the fast kind, and I’m not surprised, it being Stark Tower I’m standing in. However, it does not do great things for my stomach or my hope I would have at least thirty seconds to compose myself.</p><p>            I actually have ten, but, y’know, no biggie. All fine, all great.</p><p>            When the little 22 button flashes blue-the same electric blue as Tony Stark’s arc reactor-the doors slide open almost immediately. I step out of the elevator, and directly into another lobby.</p><p>            What?</p><p>            Receptionist Number Dos smiles at me, and before I can even take a step toward her, she’s talking. “Oh! You’re the new intern!” she stands up and moves towards me as another pair of security guards give me another pat-down.</p><p>            She takes my hand once I’m declared safe for the second time, and cheerily says, “I’m Rosa. Rosa Smith,” before turning right around and sitting back down at her desk. “I like introducing myself a little more personally. Oh, and before you go, meet with the head of your department to get our info. His name’s William Baker. His office is to the right, behind the big oak doors.”<br/>
Then she happily waves me off towards another majestic pair of doors. She’s rather quick.</p><p>            This door has a shiny silver handle, solid in my hand. I pause internally to think about how my family will never be able to have such a shiny, expensive thing, real or no. At least the internship is paid, and not even minimum wage, a whole fifteen dollars more. But twenty dollars per hour on an intern seems steep, especially with the scale of people he’s paying. When I asked Spark, pretty shocked, she just made a face and said that “Tony Stark does not approve of short-changing people, I guess. Makes sense, he’s got money to burn,” before turning back around to coding her medical AI.</p><p>            (Technically not an AI yet because it doesn’t have awareness yet, but it’s pretty complicated. I can code alright and I barely understand what each module vaguely does.) (Also, it edits some of the “approved to edit” code. Double checking based on wikis and papers to see if every medical procedure is actually right. Which I think is an AI thing. Maybe it does have self-awareness?)</p><p>            The door opens silently, leading to a busy-as-all-get-out room. I manage to see rows of computers and what looks like holograms in the back, behind blurs of people running around with papers and yelling at each other. I glance around for Mr. Baker’s office, and indeed, there is a grand pair of oak doors.</p><p>            I dodge my way across the room, noting a kitchenette that is mostly just coffee machines. Also, some guy is waist-deep in a sparking prototype that looks vaguely like the insides of a car, and I think he might be electrocuted soon. He’s standing in a lower section, which looks like a business-like workshop; all gleaming tools and panicked, sleep deprived engineers.</p><p>            I open the doors to Mr. Baker’s office, after knocking and getting a gruff “Come in.”</p><p>            Mr. Baker does not look like he’s slept in some thirty hours, but he stands to look me in the eye anyway.<br/>
“Hello, King,” he says, getting away from the what’s your title? question by not bothering with one at all. “You’re the intern, so you’ll mostly be checking math, getting coffee, and maybe helping out if someone needs it. An assistant, if you will. You have a forty-five-minute break, but if you manage to get a summer job that bumps up to an hour. Bathroom you can use is on the next floor up, try not to take too long. You’ll be paid the agreed twenty bucks an hour, which is a little high in my opinion.”<br/>
He crosses his arms across his chest. “Try not to mess anything up. You have desk twenty-five, you’re sitting next to a guy that should be able to show you the ropes. Peter Parker. The desks are all marked, so you should be able to find it. Ask for help if you need it, I’m not losing contract money because of pride. Stark sometimes drops in, don’t be shocked. He has a kind of insulting sense of humor, don’t get offended by it. Now get out, I have work to do.”</p><p>            I blink, manage a respectful, “Thank you, sir,” and step out of his office, feeling like I absorbed almost nothing from that thirty-second debriefing.</p><p>            I decide to start making my way towards the clump of desks (and holograms, I didn’t know those were possible. Huh). I do see little sticky notes with numbers written on them, and a few desks have been dragged towards projects or other things, but mine, number twenty-five, is in place. So is the desk next to mine, the last one in our row.</p><p>            Sitting in that desk is a boy with messy brown hair and a black eye, typing away casually on a laptop while simultaneously sketching a design on a StarkPad. He stops typing for half a second to chug some coffee before immediately beginning again.</p><p>            “Um. Are you Peter Parker? Mr. Baker told me you were going to show me the ropes?” I ask hesitantly, unsure whether I should interrupt or not.<br/>
The boy startles, then sits up, abandoning both his projects in favor of looking at me in panic. “Yes! Oh, you’re Bryn, right?” he asks, standing up.  He smells like pizza and burritos, and detergent. His eyes bounce from my curly, uncontrollable hair to my freckled face to my semi-casual clothes. “Yeah, I’m Peter,” he says, putting out his hand, which also has bruises on it. “Nice to meet you.”<br/>
I blink at his hand, and as gently as humanly possible, place mine in his. He shakes my hand for a second, then immediately sits down again. He turns to me, letting his StarkPad click off and his laptop go into sleep mode.<br/>
“Okay, so over there’s the workshop zone,” he says, pointing to the area that looks even crazier than where I’m sitting. “If you go in there, you have to wear gloves while working on projects and all the safety stuff, but most everyone ignores all that. If you want, there’s all the safety gear in the closet to the right.”<br/>
I nod, deciding gloves and helmets are for the weak. Peter immediately moves on.  “That’s the kitchen,” he says pointing to the kitchen. “We mostly use it for coffee, but a lot of times people stay late so you can grab food from the fridge or like, make toast or something.”<br/>
Someone in the kitchen drops a mug of coffee, which shatters, but only musters up the energy to look at it in disappointment before filling another as I watch. A little Roomba tries its best to clean up the mess, but soon motors away when it can’t do much.</p><p>            “We’re in the “office” area, where you brainstorm designs and stuff. Over there’s the conference rooms,” Peter says, pointing to a nice pair of doors. “We go in there to present designs and prototypes and stuff to fancy board members. You don’t really need to go in there almost ever, so.”<br/>
Then he turns to me. “Dress code is whatever, as you can see,” he says, gesturing to his stained jeans and tee. I’m wearing jeans as well, but a slightly nicer shirt. “No one really cares much. Everything’s pretty informal, y’know, functionality over formality and all that.”<br/>
Peter smiles at me, and my eyes catch on a fierce bruise blooming on the bottom of his jaw. “Questions?”<br/>
I have a lot, actually, but the one that’s least appropriate pops out of my mouth first. “Uh, yeah. What happened to you?”<br/>
I flashback for half a second to dabbing on concealer over similar bruises in a cracked, beat-up bathroom, and helping Brooke get her backpack on for school because her shoulders wouldn’t move that way, and-<br/>
Peter blinks, then nervously laughs, rubbing his jaw. “Oh, has the concealer rubbed off? I guess it should have rubbed off a few hours ago, I’ve been here since yesterday.”<br/>
I try to process the info, but end up more concerned. “Yeah, but how’d you get those in the first place?”<br/>
Peter waves me off, stalling, before speaking. He looks nervous, scared, even. “Just some kids. Went to get my T-shots every Sunday, and, you y’know, and they really didn’t like that.”<br/>
T-shots; testosterone. Hormone shots that help trans people transition.</p><p>Huh. I thought I was hired for the diversity quota. I mean, a non-binary Mexican-American person with no job experience except at McDonalds? Why would Stark Industries hire me?</p><p>            But this dude is also trans, and the only other time I’ve been considered because of the quota, I was the only one, so…</p><p>            Peter waves a hand in front of my face. “Dude, you okay?” he asks. Then he looks a little terrified. “Oh, was that offensive? Too masculine? I’m sorry, I’m just- “<br/>
I put up a hand. “First of all, dude’s pretty gender ambiguous. I use it for pretty much anything and anyone. You’re fine. Second, I didn’t know Stark Industries hired trans people, so I kind of just assumed I was here for the diversity quota.”<br/>
Peter freezes up for half a second, processing this, before his hands start flying. I try to calm myself and restrain from flinching while he starts talking at the speed of light. “No, dude, of course not! Mr. Stark actually looked at you himself, I know, I’m pretty much his unofficial assistant, and he thought you had some real promise! I mean, he asked all your teachers, and they all said you were pretty bored, like, all the time! Which isn’t good, of course, but-“<br/>
He makes a pretty large hand movement that gets a little too close, and I flinch with almost my full body.</p><p>            Aaaaaaand now Peter’s looking at me all concerned.</p><p>            “Sorry,” I mutter. “I just…” I look around. “It’s really loud in here, and I’m usually fine, but I’m kind of nervous because it’s my first day and all and…” I take a breath, trying to tamp down some really ugly feelings.<br/>
“I’m fine, Peter,” I say, sitting down in my new, fancy office chair. I start powering up my computer as Peter stares at me.<br/>
“If you need to step out-” he starts, but I shake my head.<br/>
“I’m fine,” I insist, squinting at the text that just appeared on my screen.</p><p>WELCOME TO STARK INDUSTRIES’ ENGINEERING DEPARTMENT.<br/>
Please follow the following instructions to start your computer.</p><p> </p><p>            As I do what the computer tells me to, Peter slowly turns back to his StarkPad, taking a sip of coffee. After a minute, he fishes in his pocket for a second, coming out with a bottle of concealer. As he starts dabbing the stuff on, I click the happy ‘START’ button, and suddenly I’m staring at an empty desk top.</p><p>            I decide to log into my business email, because that seems kind of productive. As soon as I finish with that, maybe five minutes later, an email pops up.</p><p>            Tony Stark, me                        Hey, kid</p><p>            I stare at the email in my inbox. Tony Stark just emailed me. Tony Stark just emailed me. I tentatively click on the email, and the full text comes up.</p><p>            Tony Stark@StarkIndustries.mail<br/>
To me</p><p>            Hey, kid, mind meeting me for a talk in my penthouse, say, five minutes from now?</p><p>            Reply?</p><p>            I stare at me screen for long enough that Peter leans over to see what’s up. “Oh,” he says. “He might want to set you up with a project, or something. I’d get going, though, he said to meet you two minutes from now, and he’s kind of your bosses’ bosses’ boss.”<br/>
I slowly stand up and dazedly make my way to the elevator.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Bryn panics, SHIELD appears on the scene, and Tony tries and hold the disaster together.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello</p><p> </p><p>I have nothing to say for myself</p><p> </p><p>Please enjoy my late product</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>         The elevator ride to Mr. Stark, taking me up one-hundred and five floors, lasts thirty seconds of terrifying acceleration. Mind-bogglingly fast, that thing practically makes me nauseous.<br/> <br/>         And then I’m even more nauseous, because I’m suddenly standing in Tony Stark’s penthouse.<br/> <br/> My idol’s penthouse. In my idol’s tower. Dios, what has my life come to?<br/> <br/>         And then there’s a voice. “Hello, Mx. King. Tony Stark will be with you shortly. In the meantime, I am J.A.R.V.I.S., Mr. Stark’s personal AI. I handle security and many of the building’s functions. Would you like a drink?”<br/>         I stare all around, revolving in a slow circle, because the voice isn’t coming from anywhere specific, and it’s kind of disorientating. This does allow me to have a good look around the place, though: there’s fancy, plush couches, a massive flat-screen TV, and a magnificent view of New York from just behind a bar.<br/> <br/>         “Uh, I can’t drink. I also don’t want to,” I tell everything, but mostly J.A.R.V.I.S. “Where’s Mr. Stark?”<br/>         The voice comes again, faintly robotic, faintly American. “Mr. Stark is in his personal elevator, and will be here in three… two… one.”<br/>         A click and a ding later, Tony Stark, my idol, a genius, is stepping out of an elevator. He’s in a sharp suit and dark sunglasses, and his confident walk overshadows my uncertain stance by miles.<br/>         “Uh,” I say, frozen. I’m suddenly self-conscious of everything about me, from my curly hair and darker skin to my black converse.<br/>         Mr. Stark takes off his sunglasses, (why was he wearing them indoors in the first place?) and hooks them onto his shirt collar. Seeing me, he moves around a couch to stand in front of me.<br/>         “Hey, kid,” he says, looking me over. His eyes catch on the raccoon circles around my eyes, but he doesn’t comment, probably because he has his own magnificent pair. “Welcome, I guess.”<br/>         He moves past me, towards the bar. “You’re not allowed to drink, right?” he asks. “Would you want, like, water?”<br/>         I decide to politely say, “I’m fine, sir. Uh, Mr. Stark.”<br/>         He looks at me over his shot glass, coming back towards me. “Mr. Stark makes me feel archaic, don’t use it,” he says, sitting on his couch. “C’mon, sit, we’re having a conversation, not an interrogation.”<br/>         I sit very carefully, which he rolls his eyes at. He sighs, and says, “Okay, kid, so I’m here to talk to you about your future, and before you say someone else could do that, yes they can, that’s why I hired them, but I’m bored and you might be interesting.”<br/> <br/>         I stare at him, then manage, “Um… Okay?”<br/>         Mr. Stark just nods, swirling his little glass. “You’re a promising case. Honors classes, your interview was almost perfect, and you seem pretty down-to-earth, so. The last time someone like you walked through our doors, things got a little messy, though, so I’m giving you full warning: you’re working in an office building dominated by old, conservative, mostly white men who you will probably not agree with. They’re going to get stupid, they’re eventually going to be disrespectful, and I’m here to say the one thing you should do when his happens,” he pauses dramatically, “Don’t tolerate it.”<br/> <br/>         Okay, life advice. From Tony Stark. Why not?<br/> <br/>         He sits forward, elbows on his knees and sunglasses dangling. “Those guys are titans in the industry, and disrespecting them would probably make you fail anywhere but here. But here, where I am also a titan of almost every industry, I don’t like employing bigots. So, if you would, as soon as anyone is being openly disrespectful, tell me, and I’ll fire them or something.”<br/> <br/>         I’m dying, I must be. What is going on? I’m getting life advice from Tony Stark, Peter Parker, his “almost assistant” is openly trans, I’m standing in Stark Tower as an honest, real-life employee, and I think it’s going to kill me.<br/> <br/>         “Anyway,” Mr. Stark says casually, “Says here your mother opened a bakery coffee shop thing two years ago,” he says, gesturing to a hologram that suddenly popped up, “And that you “volunteer” there a lot.”<br/> <br/>         Does he think that makes me distracted? Dedicated? Is this good or bad? Dios, please don’t fire me on my first day, fire me after pay day, please.<br/> <br/>         “Uh, yes, Sir.”<br/>         Mr. Stark looks at me flatly. “Don’t call me sir. That’s what my dad wanted to be called, and I am not my father.”<br/>         I blink, mouth dry. “Yes, s- uh, Tony?”<br/>         Mr. Stark-Tony- nods. “Anyway. You’re assigned to this new machine that tries to locate cancer cells within bones, real complicated because they don’t want to have to cut the body open at all. Helping Peter-you hopefully met him, nice kid-with this, he’ll be working more on the chemistry side of things. So, y’know, good luck. Bye.”<br/> <br/>         I cautiously stand up as Tony Stark (just Tony feels unnatural) starts flicking through his hologram, ignoring me.<br/> <br/>“J, get the elevator for the kid,” Tony tells J.A.R.V.I.S, not glancing up from his work. “Learn some manners, will you?”<br/>         “Of course, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. says, and is that sarcasm?<br/> <br/>         Is this voice an actual, self-aware AI? The kind that could have the ability to kill humanity?<br/> <br/>         “Mx. King, I would advise getting in the elevator in order to descend to your level,” J.A.R.V.I.S says, and yeah, that was definitely sarcasm.<br/>         “Yeah,” I mutter, starting to get a little overwhelmed. I slowly stumble into the metal box, and the doors smoothly glide shut.<br/>         “Mx. King,” J.A.R.V.I.S says, “Not to be rude, but your heart rate has greatly accelerated. Is there anything wrong?”<br/>         I blink, thinking of the dozens of things that have gone wrong in my life. Dad’s entire existence in my general area, Mama’s inability to unchain herself from that man, Brooke giving up college so I can go (“Really, Bryn, I’m happy here. I’ll settle down or something, run the shop. You always were the big dreamer.”) (God, she would probably give up her life for me.), coming out (and dad’s reaction), the stressful period two years ago when we were homeless and almost hopeless (Brooke... kind of single-handedly saved us with her optimism, honestly), and-<br/> <br/>         “Mx. King, your heartbeat has not calmed down. Do you consent to a full body scan? Your health records in my database tell me you have occasional panic attacks.”<br/> <br/>         My head’s spinning, and I distantly realize that I’m slumped against the wall, and gravity keeps changing inside my head so I can’t get up. Nausea, the burning kind in the back of your throat, works its way to the front of my mind-<br/> <br/>         “Please attempt to breath with the counting, Mx. King,” J.A.R.V.I.S instructs, before beginning to list numbers.<br/> <br/>         I vaguely try to suck in air when he tells me, but holding my breath or sucking in more air for seven seconds is impossible when I’m fudging panicking in Tony Stark’s elevator, God, Dios, I’m so weak, Jesus-<br/> <br/>“Mx. King, I am contacting Doctor Banner. I am also contacting Sophia “Spark” Dillon from Software, who is listed under your emergency contacts.”<br/> <br/>         The elevator stops, and my sense of gravity decides to take a swing off a cliff, and suddenly I’m heavy, and I’m falling, and my nose hurts, did I break it? Everything hurts, Dios, Mama, why? I think I’m shaking, maybe? My left arm is starting to prickle from under where I’m pinning it, but that doesn’t make sense, because I just fell-<br/> <br/>         I just-<br/>         Falling-<br/>         Fell?<br/> <br/>         “Bryn!”<br/> <br/>         Oh. Spark is- Spark’s-<br/> <br/>         Here.<br/> <br/>         Help?<br/> <br/>         Hands-there’s hands, touching, touching no, no more pain don’t want it to hurt no stop please bad please no breathing burns why does it burn weak I’m weak can’t even breathe why is there hands there’s hands-<br/> <br/>         And there’s a sound of pain, but I don’t figure out in my clouded brain who made it before there’s nothing.<br/> <br/> <br/>“Sir please, he’s not-“<br/>         “A threat? Oh, like you?”<br/>         There’s a beeping, I don’t like it. There’s beeping, and it’s speeding up, and Spark. Why is Spark so angry?<br/>         “He’s awake.”<br/>         “First up, they/ them pronouns, you supervillain reject. Second, get away from them, third, no they’re not.”<br/>         “Am I incorrect, Ms. Dillon, or does a heartbeat speeding up not reflect alertness?”<br/>         “Mister Fury, with all of the respect I have for you, I’m telling you-“<br/> <br/>         And then I’m gone again.<br/> <br/> <br/>         I hate this beeping with all of my soul. All of it, I think.<br/> <br/>         This thought happens three seconds before I panic when I can’t move my arms-<br/> <br/>         My arms- can’t move-it’s happening again-pinned down-no-<br/> <br/>         The beeping speeds up, because of course it does, says some disconnected, stupid and judgmental part of my brain.<br/> <br/>         “See, I told you this would happen. You can’t just pin him down like an animal, he’ll freak out,” says a voice, and I’m pretty sure it’s Spark. Did Spark tie me down?<br/> <br/>         Did Spark tie me down?<br/> <br/>         Is she going to let them hurt me?<br/> <br/>         Is Spark going to hurt me?<br/> <br/>         “We do not yet know if he is a threat,” says a masculine voice I don’t recognize.<br/> <br/>         I gasp in some air, and I feel something fluttering along my throat, which is weird, that shouldn’t happen, how is that possible-<br/> <br/>         “Bryn, I’m not going to let them hurt you. All you have to do is open your eyes,” Spark coaxes. Who is them, why do they want to hurt me?<br/> <br/>         Wait-my neck-the fluttering-<br/> <br/>         They found me.<br/> <br/>         And the god-awful beeping is speeding up.<br/> <br/>         “No, no, Bryn, it’s okay, I promise, I won’t let them, okay? It doesn’t matter.”<br/> <br/>         It matters so much, Spark, no matter how much you try to calm me down, it really, really matters!<br/> <br/>         Another panicked gasp, but this time, I muster up the energy to make my eyelids fly open. The first thing I see is a flash of Spark’s blond bob and her concerned grey eyes checking me over.<br/> <br/>         I’m in a white room, surrounded by machines, Spark, a middle aged black man with a scary eye patch and a gun, and three other people in suits with guns pointed at me. Other notable additions to the room are the straps made from some really strong stuff, judging by the fact I haven’t managed to break them yet, Tony Stark, staring at me, and the blinking red light of three security cameras in three separate locations in the room.<br/> <br/>         Another panicked wheeze. Spark’s hands fly around me like butterflies, making sure my IV is still in and that I don’t have any broken bones and all that medical stuff.<br/> <br/>         I stare around for a second, taking in all the guns pointing at my head-and Spark’s head, for that matter-the fact Tony Stark isn’t staring at me with disgusted wonder or anything, but with concern (for an intern he just met, what), and the fact that I have been found, and I’ve dragged Spark down with me.<br/> <br/>         I turn my panicked gaze to Spark, and she does some translating, because she gives me a weak smile and says, “Still only Code Orange. Not Red yet, buddy. Now calm down.”<br/> <br/>         I stare at Scary Eyepatch Man a little more, and he doesn’t seem fazed, so I just stare at my sheets, hoping they’ll burst into flames and burn me to death.<br/> <br/>         Jesus, if they’ve found me, they’ve found Brooke, and Mama, and they’ll by looking into everyone I ever met, and-<br/> <br/>         Wait, says the only rational part of my brain left online, check first.<br/> <br/>         So I do. I close my eyes, suck in another breath-doesn’t burn this time, thank you very much-and try.<br/> <br/>         They flutter against my neck again, traitors. My gills are out in the open, and I’d bet everything I have they’ve also found the scales, and the odd, un-human way my ears do life, and the almost unnatural way my spine moves.<br/> <br/>         They’ve found me out, me and my stupid half-mermaid parts.<br/> <br/>         Sigh.<br/> <br/>         I peel my eyes back open, and ask, “My organs failing yet?”<br/>         Spark glares at me in a way that says I should not joke about this. “Bryn,” she starts. “Don’t. You know that being inter-species can really mess up the way your body does things, and that several more percent than average of us have crippling disabilities, and-”<br/>         I stare her in the eyes and say, “Maybe we shouldn’t give the scary government agents so much info, amiga.”<br/> <br/>         Scary Eyepatch Man has pulled out a notepad and has started writing these things down. Spark glares at him.<br/> <br/>         “This is Nicholas Fury,” she says. “He’s director of the government program for freaks, otherwise known as S.H.I.E.L.D. And apparently, he has nothing better to do than interrogate and wrongfully imprison teens who pose no threat whatsoever to national security.”<br/> <br/>         I stare at him. “Director of which one, again?” I ask. “The agency that handles aliens, or the one stuck with all the losers from home?”<br/> <br/>         Spark gives me a look, and says, “Take a guess, stupid.”<br/>         “Yeah, you’re right,” I say, “I’m no alien.”<br/> <br/>         Nick Jerk Fury writes something down. I pause. “Wait,” I demand, “You didn’t figure that out?”<br/> <br/>         Fury doesn’t glance up.<br/> <br/>         Tony does. “Okay,” he says slowly. “So, what I’ve gotten from this is that the world is a lot funkier than I thought-”<br/> <br/>         “When has it been normal?” asks Spark.<br/> <br/>         Tony ignores her. “That you”-he points to me and my stupidly obvious gills- “are half something-or-another, which can be a danger to your health or something, and that Fury has way too much time on his hands, and also that your friend can do some freaky stuff with her hands.”<br/> <br/>         I look at Spark accusingly. “What did you do?”<br/>         Spark smiles half-heartedly. “Shocked you a few times, mostly trying to get your hormone levels to stabilize.”<br/>         I groan. No wonder everything burns-usually I’m just exhausted after panic attacks. “That doesn’t make seeeeeense.”<br/>         Spark shrugs, turning to my IV bag and doing something important looking.<br/> <br/>         Tony continues. “So. What the h-“<br/> <br/>         One of the agents pointing guns at me-the one next to the door-cuts in. “Excuse me,” he says, “But I have a few questions.”<br/> <br/>         “Spark,” I say, ignoring her, “Do I have permission to move, like, at all?”<br/>         “No.”<br/>         “Cool.”<br/> <br/>         Door Agent is not amused. “What are you?” she asks.<br/>         “Who are you?” I shoot back.<br/>         Door Agent draws herself up to her full height. “My name is Maria Hill,” she says, “Yours is Bryn King, used to be Dylan Hernandez before it was legally changed. Your family has opened a small bakery within the last two years called King’s Bakery, and you’re in your sophomore year of high school.”<br/>         I blink at her. “Stalker,” I mutter.<br/> <br/>         “Okay!” Mr. Stark cuts in, apparently tired of these jerks. “How about we all calm down, you know, not shoot each other, and I’m sure Bryn would be happy to share!”<br/> <br/>         I blink at him. I mean, I think, some of it, I guess.<br/> <br/>         Tony gets between me and one of the three guns pointed at my head. Which I respect. He jabs me with his elbow, and mutters, “Say literally anything.”<br/> <br/>         I hesitantly open my mouth. “Uh, my specific species of what you guys call mermaids came from the coast of Mexico, but they’ve more recently moved a little closer to the Bahamas because pollution and fishing sucks, and-”<br/>         Fury interrupts. “There’s more?” he demands, scribbling on his little pad.<br/>         “Uh, yeah,” I say. “My kind is usually more in tropical areas, but there’s others with slightly different anatomy in cooler areas, like Greenland, and much cooler areas, like Antarctica.”<br/>         I silently pray that telling Fury this doesn’t end with millions of mermaid deaths.<br/> <br/>         Gun Man by The Window has a question. He says, “You said we call you mermaids. What do you call yourselves?”<br/>         I level him a look, then unemotionally give out a series of fast clicks, along with a few flashes from the panels along my gills. Technically, that’s not the full word, but I would have to flash some panels on my thighs and ribs at him and I’m not doing that.<br/>         This stuns him into silence for half a blissful second, before he asks, “And you use echolocation for communication?”<br/>         I nod uneasily, glancing around some more. “And patterns of flashing lights.”<br/>         <br/>         Fury attempts another question, but is interrupted by a rather loud thump from outside my little room. Every head spins toward the door, along with half the guns.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>TWs: panic attacks, non-sexual, non-consensual bondage, medical stuff (partially hand-wavy, partially actually researched), etc.</p><p>Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Vocab:<br/>Dios  is god in Spanish</p><p>TWs:<br/>None this time around. Enjoy!</p><p>Thanks for reading, and please let me know if anything’s off. My lovely beta, Bluejay12, and myself are not infallible. Cheers, and stay safe.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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